


Keep the Change

by Soobiebear



Category: Megadeth
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4747259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soobiebear/pseuds/Soobiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the Photo Challenge.  I picked New York Taxis, and half ass stole the idea from Harry Chapin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep the Change

Life has a strange way of kicking you in the teeth when you're already down. Story of my life. I was gonna have it all as a kid; I was ambitious, determined, and single minded to a fault about getting out of the life my mother dragged me thorough and my father dumped me in.

Ambition was a wonderful thing until Gar introduced us to freebasing. Without any gigging income the cocaine got to be unreachable and I made the switch to rock cocaine. Crack.

Crack didn't like me as much as I liked it; it was a very dangerous love affair that took off as my relationship with David soured.

One night on the street turned into two turned into a week and before I knew it I was really homeless. Not the occasional housing hiccup any struggling musician goes through, but seriously fucked. I'd been kicked out of one band already and watched as Megadeth crumbled around me. The kicker had been Junior leaving. I could never find anyone to replace him, even though I tried. Some asshole agent found him at one of our gigs and whisked him off to a side of Hollywood I could never show him, leaving Megadeth one album into an upended career and rudderless as I floundered between couch surfing and living in my car.

Many arrests later, a judge finally took pity on me, sending me to a rehab instead of more prison time. Not that I wanted to go through rehab, but if it kept my ass out of prison I signed the fuck up. Sixty days and they'd release me and I could go score with the fifty bucks they'd give me for a bus ticket and hotel.

The state bussed me up to Marin County and away from my life in LA and much too close to Corcoran for my comfort. Fucked up old hippies and college liberal basketweavers ran the facility, but to my surprised I'd cleaned up. The urge was still there, but I'd learned how to cope with it.

They'd found my talent for cars during one of the therapy sessions, one of the therapists taking me outside and letting me fix up one of the busted golf carts. Bartered my way out of a day's worth of 'mommy didn't love me' and 'I thought life would be better'.

Sixty days turned into four months before they deemed me ready for discharge. By then I was doing all the staff's oil changes while they worked and smaller repairs, the local Napa store running up parts I'd call in. Belt replacement, spark plugs, mufflers, radiator work, all done for the price of parts and an extra serving at meal time or a slipped cigarette when I'd run out. I certainly didn't see anyone else walking around the compound unattended.

They laid out my discharge options in front of me. Move back in with my mother and sister or Choice B. They found a cab company in New York that would sponsor me in return for work. They'd fly me out there, set me up, and get me working if I attended meetings regularly and did my job.

Not that I didn't love my family in some strange, twisted way, but LA had run its course. I'd either pissed off or pissed on everyone there and with the police knowing my name it had suddenly become a little too hot for my liking.

I ended up in New York, slaving away at a midtown garage fixing up mashed fenders and burned out transmissions. It paid the bills and kept me straight. The few people I'd known in town I didn't bother to look up. It was easy to disappear, much easier than it had been in LA. The cold and gloom wore on me, but without lighting up again I learned to like the snow and the soot covered brick.

I graduated from the meetings and my probation expired. The job kept me on, my nimble guitarist fingers making repacking bearings and shaping rotors easier than the other mechanics.

After years I moved around, bouncing my way through the boroughs until my arthritis cut my work short. Shitty ass insurance at the last place wouldn't pay for the needed neck surgery, so I found someplace that would let me switch it up. Some days I still did repairs. Some days I taught the new kids the basics. Some days I just drove a taxi, one ordinary guy huffing it from Laguardia across the bridge into the city and back again. No pain a few beers and the occasional joint couldn't handle and the tips usually made up for the inconvenience of dealing with traffic.

I pulled into the taxi stand again, ready for another run back into the city, hoping I'd get a business traveler instead of a vacationing family. A man waived me down and climbed in, shielding his hair from the light drizzle that had started to fall.

"Where to?" I asked him, setting up the meter.

"43rd and 8th," he said, staring out the window.

The Hilton. I knew all the hotels in and around the city. Nice choice, but not over the top. Probably business. I took in the fine cut of his clothes and the effortless perfection of his hair. Certainly not a tourist, but didn't look like a banker or a lawyer type. Something about him looked familiar.

"Have I driven you before?" I looked in the rear view mirror as I pulled out of the lane.

"I'm sure you're mistaken." He said it with the air of someone who is constantly recognized and has to brush it off. An industry type. Mentally I was already counting the tip. Maybe that's why he looked familiar.

His eyes flickered from the wet scenery to the mirror as I drove, eventually finding my license tacked to the divider. I watched as a small, sad smile crept over his face.

"How are you Dave?"

"I'm good. How about you Junior? I still remember you."

"Good, you know. Keeping busy." He bit his lip. "You look good."

"Pfft," I hissed out, knowing full well the ravages the drugs left on me. "I'm alive. Guess that counts for something."

"Yeah, I just got done filming another movie. Got some promo work to do." He paused, looking ahead instead of out the window. "You still play?"

I shook my head and avoided a bicyclist. "Nah, gave it up when I left LA. Tried to stay clean." The light flashed as I passed the toll booth on the bridge. "You play?"

"A bit, for fun every now and then."

"You were good, you should pick it up again."

"Same with you." He looked over my shoulder at my permanently grease stained fingers, busted up knuckles from wrench slips, and arthritic joints. "You could have been great."

Nothing kills a conversation faster than having your past thrown at you. Aside from a few years we'd spent together huddling against the world we didn't have much in common. I turned the cab off 57th, making a straight shot down 8th to avoid the FDR traffic this time of day.

As I got near his hotel, he spoke again. "I'm gonna be here a few weeks, we should hang out."

I could only nod, knowing it would never happen. The repugnant niceties of the upper crust had leeched into him over the years or maybe he had always been this way and I was too blind to see it.

He looked at the meter and handed me two twenties for a $12.50 fare. "Dave, keep the change."

I stared at the money for a moment, trying to process what he was doing. Anyone else would have been mad, a few would have been hurt. Anyone else would never have let him go. I took the bills from his manicured fingers and stashed them in my shirt.

He left without another word, his small carry on bag held over his head to ward off the rain. I turned the meter off and headed back to the airport. This was going to be both a beer and a joint night to cover up the pain of my past mistakes. If I was lucky I could get home in time to watch Jimmy Fallon.


End file.
